


Liminal

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Demonstuck [63]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Demonstuck, Gen, NOT vore. no vore here, happy day that only sometimes exists!, local agender mage gets eaten sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:20:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22931662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: You have to pull the light into a smaller, more cohesive ball once you've waded out of the water the magic dropped you in. It's brighter, but the light still doesn't carry as far as before; then again, what more info are you going to get from your surroundings that you haven't figured out already? You're underground, in a high-ceilinged cavern that throws back echoes of the water dripping off your clothes, somewhere deep enough that you can't see or feel any sign of the sun.Thanks to some odd magical mechanics specific to February 29th, Gale gets in a bit more trouble than they really planned to.
Series: Demonstuck [63]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1003470
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

You wake up. You wake up just a little bit, enough to know that you really don't want to go any further—even just barely awake as you are, you can tell you're definitely going to have a headache the moment you open your eyes. Probably the kind that skips all the intermediate stages and goes straight to _unbearable_ , if you had to guess. 

Maybe you could just roll over onto your stomach, bury your face in the pillow and manage to fall back asleep for a little longer. That's the plan you intend to go with, actually—but you shift just the tiniest bit and freeze as several things penetrate your sleep-fogged brain. 

One—you're not on the couch where you usually sleep. The bed in your room hasn't been used for at least a couple months at this point, D and Grey and anyone else who might just scoop you up to move you know better than to do that by now, and you don't remember going into your room at all last night. 

(You don't remember _anything_.) 

But. Two—the fabric against your skin—not the blankets and sheets, but the clothes you're wearing—it's too soft. Fuzzy. Not something you own, not something you'd borrow from someone else in the safehouse, not really anything you can imagine yourself wearing to sleep in. 

And three, the worst one—there's warm breath on the back of your neck. When you move, whoever's there huffs in surprise or in half-sleeping confusion or—

Or in anger. 

All _you're_ feeling right now is fear. But see, you've spent a long time slowly moving your first response to fear away from _freeze_ and back towards _fight_ , towards _flight_. Instead of going stiff and still until the person behind you wakes up enough to realize that you're awake, you roll away and off the bed. 

Most of the blankets seem to come with you. You struggle with them for a moment, and then remember—oh yeah, you have magic. Perfect to deal with this kind of thing. Crossing your arms over your chest and flipping them out in a quick, sharp motion immediately does the trick—the blankets wrapped around your body untangle like they've suddenly gained a life of their own, twisting free and flying across the room. You do get a clear glimpse of your bedmate before one blanket settles over their head, though. 

The fluffy white dog—you want to say it's a Perinese—whines as its head's covered, pawing at the blankets. If you weren't still panicking, you think you'd feel bad right now. 

Then someone touches your shoulder, and all of the dials in your head _instantly_ twist up to max. (Not that they really had far to go.) You spin, going for the knife in your pocket with one hand and using the other arm as a buffer to slam the person touching you backwards until their back hits the wall. 

The pants you're wearing are definitely fluffy, and definitely not yours. There are no pockets, which means no knife, which mean that you do _not_ actually hurt the wide-eyed woman who looks both startled and nearly as afraid as you feel. 

Well. You probably hurt her at least a little, slamming her up against the wall. You've had bruises every time it's happened to you, after all. 

Unlike you, she does freeze. She doesn't move even when you choke back a noise that's trying to be a sob and let her go, just stares at you as you back away—she's not a hunter, is she? You're not in the safehouse—well, you knew _that_ , but. You're not in _any_ safehouse, no hunters' base. You don't know where you are. You don't know what's happening, what happened, the horrible crushing sense of helplessness, of being at someone else's questionable mercy—it's hitting you so hard that you can't think, can't even breathe. 

You only realize you're still backing away when the backs of your legs hit the bed and you sit without thinking. It puts you lower than the woman—you didn't think the few inches of height you have on her mattered until you're below her, when a fresh surge of fear hits you because of that. You're not—you _can't_ — 

Stop. 

Breathe. 

Well, you can't really do that either right now, but you get a tiny flash of reason from the corner of your brain that's still functioning, pointing out that hey, now might be a good time for the kind of self-serving magic that you almost always tend to feel vaguely ashamed about using. The woman still doesn't move as you force your fists to unclench, put your palms flat over your eyes, your ears, your mouth. 

Having your mouth covered forces you to breath through your nose. It makes you immediately aware of how fast and panicky your breathing's gotten in the last three seconds or so, so you leave them there, trying to get that slowed down as you wait for the panic to drain back down to semi-normal levels again. 

"I'm, uh. I'm." It's nowhere near where it should be even now, but you're still going to try to talk. You can't quite bring yourself to lower your hands all the way yet, though; they end up hovering around your collarbone in a pose that you know has to come across as too defensive. "I'm sorry, sorry, I—I just—I didn't—" 

"I scared you." She holds her hands up, although you stopped talking the moment she opened her mouth. "Okay. I figure you've had a rough couple of days, right?" 

"That's. Uh." ...okay, so she's probably right, but you still can't remember what happened. _Something_ happened—there's a vague memory of talking with Roxy, discussing the idea of mixing a little of your magic with their inkborne powers, and even with as few words as the woman's spoken you can hear the wrong accent, something far north of what you've gotten used to with the Striders. 

All lapses in memory aside, you're having a rough day _now_...so you don't feel guilty about nodding. 

"Are you okay?" 

Well, you _have_ to nod at that. That's just polite. Too bad you immediately call your own honesty into question by flinching away from the touch of the Perinese's wet nose on the back of your neck—it's found its way out from under the blanket and apparently decided to check on you again. 

"Shit—" Wait. This isn't the safehouse, she isn't someone who's used to the Striders—you probably shouldn't have said that. You clap both hands over your mouth again; as a result, your next _sorry_ comes out muffled. 

She just sighs, looking at the dog instead of you. (No more eye contact, for a minute at least. Thank fuck.) "Bear, get down. Off the bed. Come on, off the bed, you're scaring him." 

You flinch again, more at the words and at the fact that you can't bring yourself to not try to correct her than at the dog's jumping down to the floor. "Uh—it's, it's them. Not him." 

"Oh. That's—okay." At least she doesn't look upset. (Or disgusted, or angry with you.) Mildly surprised, if anything. "How about a name?" 

"I—uh. It's Gale." You remind yourself that you do have permission to use the last name, and add, "Strider. Gale Strider." 

"Okay, that's good—my name’s Jennifer, all right?" When you nod, she asks, "Do you know how you got here, Gale?" 

"I, uh." You could just say no, but... "I don't—I don't even know where _here_ is. Other than—not Texas?" 

"I mean, you're not _wrong._ Colorado definitely isn't Texas—" 

" _Colorado_?" What did you do? You can't teleport, can't open portals or walk in shadows. You can't have come from where you belong to here—what did you _do_? 

Jennifer gives you a moment, presumably to start explaining. (You can't. Even if you knew what the hell happened, you don't think you could talk right now.) When you just shake your head, she tells you, "You were in with the goats. Well, in the pasture—most of them were in the shed, Peyton was about to feed them." 

You think you're supposed to say something here—she's stopped again. "I—um. The pasture?" 

"Yeah, weird things have always shown up there, but I'm pretty sure you're the first whole person. Maybe the second or third thing to leave a mini crop circle too." 

"...crop circle." Okay, so she may not be a hunter, but if she's able to accept someone appearing from nowhere this calmly...well, something's definitely a bit crooked here. Which is better than the alternative—a normal person totally unprepared for someone like you showing up like this, but still. You really, really want to start crying from the amazingly messy brew of emotions filling your head right now. 

Instead of doing that, you take a deep breath and lace your fingers together in your lap, squeezing your palms flat together until you feel your magic twist up into a helpful (if temporary) surge of courage. It's just enough to clear your head and let you look up to meet Jennifer's eyes. 

"Do—uh, do you have my clothes? I, um. I need my, my phone."

* * *

According to Jennifer, you were soaking wet when her kids found you being examined and nibbled at by curious caprines. Your clothes are fine, after a session in the dryer; the contents of your pockets are all present and accounted for, including your still-damp wallet, and none of them seem any worse for wear. 

Your phone, though...not so much. Not only is it still damp even after being left in rice for the day or so you've apparently been out, the screen's cracked. You don't think it's from any normal impact—it's not spiderwebbed, the center of the screen's untouched, but around the edges cracks spread inward in a pattern that reminds you of the face of a clock. 

It also won't turn on. _Fuck._

You have to just stop and close your eyes for a minute when you come to the conclusion that your phone's dead. You can't call for help—you're on your own. You're going to have to figure out how to make it back to the safehouse on your own, and you're terrified to even _try_ —it's been so long since you've had to try to travel any significant distance without real resources and it was different before, back then your only goal was _away_ , you can't—

"Gale?" Jennifer doesn't touch you this time; when you open your eyes she's holding out a phone with a sympathetic smile. "Need to call someone to come get you?" 

"I—yeah. Please." You'd keep talking—well, begging—but as soon as you hold your hands out she drops the phone into them. "Thank you—" 

"Hey, it's not your fault yours got fried." Something crashes in the other room; Jennifer winces, looking over her shoulder. "I'm going to go see what they're getting into—take your time, alright?" 

Again, you can't find the words to do anything but nod. The moment the door closes behind her, you're tapping out Dave's number—you should be calling D, technically, but he's had to change phones four times in six months and you have no idea if the number you have memorized goes to the current one. Waiting through two sets of ringtones is...not really a good option right now. 

Dave picks up on the second ring and you're _still_ shaking already. " _Yo, Dave Strider, if you're not calling about supernatural shit I'm guessing you might have the wrong number—"_

If he didn't sound so calm—distracted, maybe, but calm, he almost _always_ sounds calm and it helps, it really does help—you probably would have had to let him talk a bit longer. As it is, you get in a shaky breath, he does silent at the sound of it, and after a moment you manage to get out, "It—it's me." 

That's not really helpful and you know it as soon as you say it. 

Dave still gets it. " _Gale? Fuck, are you okay?_ " And there goes all of his vocal composure. Why is it that knowing that he's worried about you makes things worse? " _Where are you? Roxy doesn't have a fuckin' clue, Jake's been scrying for you but—_ " 

"Colorado." 

" _What?_ " 

"I—uh. I'm, I'm there. Colorado. In Colorado." 

" _How the actual fuck did you—_ " 

"I don't _know_!" That comes out...much louder than you meant it to. You nearly drop the phone when you realize just how loud it was, and nearly drop it again when you remember that it's not actually your phone. By the time that you manage to get it up to your ear again, all you can hear is muffled cursing and a series of faint thumps. "Uh—Dave?" 

" _Nah. I got you, sib._ " 

It's a softer voice than Dave's. Rougher, too, maybe because he almost never uses it. You think you've heard Kurloz speak aloud all of five times, one or two phrases each, but you've got good vocal memory and you know who's on the other end of the line. 

" _Still there?_ " 

"Still here." And (for the moment at least) knocked out of your spiral of panic. Nice. "I—what happened?" 

From the soft hum you hear from him, you can imagine Kurloz's shrug. " _Magic shit. Things get motherfucking weird this close to the liminal times; it ain't your fault._ " 

"Uh...the..." 

" _Liminal times. Leap year._ " He grumbles under his breath for a moment, no real words—after a second you hear Dave point something out in the background. Probably that telepathy doesn't work over phone lines. " _Fuck. Liked it better when we had ten days_ every _year that didn't exist right. Easier to plan for, didn't fuck up magic this bad._ " 

"I...um, I don't—I don't understand." 

" _Leap year._ " Kurloz may not be very good at explaining, but he _does_ have patience going for him. Well, when it comes to you at least. " _Belief breaks up around shit that's set in stone but for one day every four years._ " 

"...oh." Wait, you still don't understand. "Mine's, uh...I, I did some shit already—" 

As always, the demon's nearly soundless when he laughs. " _What kind of shit, lil' sib?_ " 

"...telekinesis. No-evil." 

" _Minor workings. You never do anything that powerful—still don't get why._ " 

"I—" You think of the things you've done that _felt_ powerful. Most of them...well, most of them ended with a corpse. The thought ties a knot in your throat for a moment, until you take a breath and hold it for the length of time it takes you to spell out _L-E-T-H-E_ in ASL with the hand that's not holding the phone. (Too bad it doesn't actually makes you forget, just moves the offending thoughts to the back of your mind, but hey, it's something.) "I do what I have to." 

" _Mhm. Should work great for you now—don't try anything too fancy. Even_ I _don't want to roll the dice for anything major until March rolls around._ " 

You take a second to parse that and come up with the worst and most selfish conclusion possible. If you had any self control you'd just keep your mouth shut and accept it,..but you've lost a little of your ability to do that since you've been inducted into the Strider family. 

"You can't come get me." And of course it comes out without a stammer or hesitation. _Shit._

Kurloz just sighs, a rush of static through the line. " _Two days, Gale. Day after tomorrow, sun comes up and I'll be there._ " 

"Mhm." It's the best you can do in the way of answering when you're holding your breath. You're stranded, you're stranded and your phone's dead and you don't know how to hide what you are anymore if you ever did—you can't just _stop_ working your small magics, and how are you supposed to know where the threshold for catastrophe might be? Taking away memories? Altering minds just enough to that you won't be in danger if someone does notice? _Where_? 

" _Sib?_ " Kurloz's already-rough voice is a touch louder now. Concerned, not that you can deal with that. " _Gale? Gale._ " 

Maybe you make a sound. You're not sure. You can hear a series of noises from the other end of the line—Kurloz and Dave arguing over who gets the phone, if you had to guess. In the end, neither one of them gets it—it's D whose voice comes through the phone you still have pressed to your ear. 

" _Hey, kiddo. Scale of one to ten on the mental state, where're you at?_ " 

Hm...should you double it? Add a couple, at least. Wait, no, Dave will know you're guilty about adjusting the number next time you're in his range. "Uh. Three? Maybe, four." 

" _Ouch._ " 

"...yeah." 

" _Okay, let's go through the checklist._ " (You feel like you should know what checklist he's talking about, but you don't.) " _Immediate danger, imminent danger, yes or no?_ " 

"No." This is some kind of nexus, a magical hotspot, but people live here. Have lived here for the recent past. You're not in immediate danger, maybe not in any danger if you can manage to not fuck it up. 

" _Okay, cool, that's good. Do you have your phone?_ " 

"It—no. I—" No, you didn't break it. Your immediate instinct is to say you did anyway, but several people would be disappointed in you if you followed through on it. "Uh. It's, it's broken." 

" _Well, fuck._ " 

"I—sorry." 

" _Pretty sure it's not your fault, Gale—you've still got the safehouse prize for_ not _breaking phones. Still sucks, though. Do you still have your wallet?_ " 

Even though you put it there maybe twenty minutes ago, you immediately reach for your hoodie's pocket and breathe out a sigh of relief at the weight you find there. "That's—yeah. I've got that." 

" _Awesome—if you get a chance to get to a Walmart or something you can pick up a temp one—_ " 

"I don't—um, this is sort of in the middle of nowhere, D..." 

" _That's okay, if you can't get to a store don't worry about it. You know we can find you without that shit."_

_Right. Right. You really don't need to be panicking. But— "Scrying—it might not work. Not here. She—Jennifer, uh, she said that, that things, they show up in the pasture, I don't know if—"_

_D makes a dismayed sound; you take that as your cue to stop talking. (Thankfully.) " _Some kind of hotspot, huh?_ " _

_"Uh. Something like that."_

_" _Alright, well. Jake can always just keep scrying narrower for whatever's strong enough to block you out, or Hal 'n Dirk can trace this phone. Hell, they probably already did...are you okay with staying put for a couple days, or do I need to start going through my contacts for somebody around Colorado?_ " _

_You take a minute to think before you even try to answer that. "...uh. I...don't think she's going to, uh, make me leave. Unless...you know."_

_" _Unless you do some freaky magic shit, huh?_ " _

_"Yeah. That." You don't dare say it. Just in case someone's near enough to hear._

_" _If you need to use it, use it. We'll figure out how to get you safe afterward, I promise._ " _

_It's D, and he doesn't lie about shit to spare feelings, not when it's this important. The fear you've been feeling since you woke up starts to dial down to your normal constant anxiety at his reassurance. "Two days?"_

_" _Eh, one and a half—you know how Kurloz is._ " _

_You do. "A day and a half. That's—I, I can handle that."_

_" _Alright, good. You okay enough for me to go?_ " _

_That's...no. You don't want to hang up, you don't want to leave this room, you don't want to deal with people you don't know well enough to really trust and struggle to make sure you don't do anything obviously unnatural, you—well, you don't really have a choice. "I—uh. Yeah. I need to, um. Give the phone back."_

_" _Probably a good idea, yeah. Call me back when you can, okay?_ " _

_"Uh-huh. Thanks, D."_


	2. Chapter 2

Jennifer is not in the living room. She isn't in the kitchen either, but both of her kids are—she told you their names before, but it still takes you a moment to come up with Peyton and Gene. She _didn't_ tell you how old either of them are, and you're horrible at guessing ages; the best you can do is "teenager" for her and "small" for him. He looks around the same age as the shikigami kids, but they're...not exactly quantifiable as any particular age, so. Yeah. 

Surprisingly, Peyton's the one eating cold canned soup directly from the can. The look she gives you suggests that to question this act would be dangerous, and you really don't feel like adding any more danger to your situation right now, so you turn to Gene instead. It's not immediately clear what he's doing, but it seems to involve a lot of paper, three pairs of scissors, and permanent markers in colors you usually only see when Jr's trying to make an especially complicated point. He doesn't actually look up at you, but that's totally fine. 

"Hey—uh. Do you know where your mom is?" 

Instead of answering your question, Gene gives you a quick once-over, nose wrinkling up, and asks one of his own. "How come your pants have so many pockets?" 

"Oh." Funny, how when anyone says something about what you're wearing you _have_ to look down. Like you somehow managed to forget what you put on last. "Hal, um. He gets them from a, a military surplus place, I think. They're good to carry my stuff around in." 

He thinks about that for a second, then offers you half of a pale blue crayon. You think it was the only crayon on the table, honestly. "That can go in your pocket?" 

"Oh, definitely." You've found that it's always wise to accept gifts from children—they carry power sometimes, for you at least, and even when they don't it's still polite. You drop the crayon in one pocket and dig in another until you find the cat's-eye marble that Seb found in the basement that only exists about half the time. Grey and Hal both checked out the marble; the consensus was that it's maybe thirty years old, but completely mundane. Safe to hand over to Gene, in other words. 

He takes it, after a moment. Glances at his sister—and offers it back. You almost have to laugh. 

"No, you get to keep it. It's, uh—it's yours." 

"Really?" 

"Mhm." You reach into your pocket again, groping for something you felt in there the first time around; after a moment, your fingers graze the coin and you pull it out, squeezing it tight in your hand for a moment. This one needs to be moved to an easier access point, honestly; you're definitely going to need a comfort item while you're here. But first... "Want to see a magic trick?" 

Gene cocks his head to the side, pausing his current task of rolling the marble back and forth across the table to look at you instead. Peyton's interest is more obvious though, to you at least; she sets her can of soup down on the counter and takes a step forward, moving to where she'll be able to see your hands. She's the one to answer you, too. 

"I want to see it. Especially if you're not one of those jerks who won't say how they do the cool stuff." 

"I mean, I, uh. I learned this one online, so...it's not like it's, it's my secret." You open your hand, showing the coin. It's something Roxy gave you; one side's blank, but the one showing now has an inlaid star of David, the three pairs of opposing triangles each filled with a pride flag—ace, aro, and agender. You don't know where they got it, but it _has_ to be custom-made, and it's one of your most prized possessions. 

It's also the perfect size for this—just about as big as a quarter, a little thinner and a bit heavier. The weight's important; it makes the process of moving the coin across the back of your hand easier, letting you weave it between your fingers fluidly enough that it seems to disappear, reappear and disappear again. It really isn't magic—you've just spent hours doing this, not just practicing but using the small, precise movements to calm yourself. It still works great for that,; after a minute you're actually comfortable enough to look up from your hands to check your small audience's reactions. 

Well, you're holding their interest—Gene's eyes have actually glazed over. Oh. Yeah. This _is_ a set of gestures you've used for entrancement before. Oh well, it's not like it's going to hurt him—going by the fascinated expression on his sister's face, the effect's not even strong enough to touch her at all. 

"You have _got_ to show me how to do that," she mumbles, looking up to meet your eyes on the last word. The eye contact startles you enough that you fumble the coin, closing your hand around it before you can actually drop it and exerting just a smidge of _actual_ magic to swap it from your left hand to your right. 

Yeah, maybe you shouldn't have done that. Then again, she wasn't actually watching and Gene probably thinks it's no more magic than the rest of what you've been doing, so...it's fine. You're fine. Everything's fine. All good. 

Still, maybe you should just stop for a second. You slip the coin back into a more accessible pocket, realizing just a second too late that you really should have passed it back to your left hand first. _Now_ Peyton's noticed; you see her nose wrinkle up as she struggles to work out exactly how you managed a pass that definitely should have been impossible, and you're pretty sure you know what she's going to ask. 

Might as well answer her before she gets around to it. "I—uh. I can't teach you that bit." 

"Ouch." Her face twists up; after a second you decide that the emotion she's smothering is amusement. Mostly. "I'm that obviously desperate, huh?" 

"That's—uh, I—" For the love of all that's holy, it'd be _really_ nice to get one sentence out without stumbling over the words. You're not even all that anxious right now! What the fuck! Okay, lower your eyes, take a breath, and try again. "It's, uh. It's not—not something I, I know how to teach, that's all, I, I—" 

You're not sure if you're planning to apologize, offer to show her how to do a different bit of sleight of hand, both, or just get stuck again. Gene doesn't seem to be interested in finding out which; he takes the opportunity to try to sneak a hand into one of your lower pockets. To give credit where credit is due, you only realize what he's doing because he picks the one you keep a folding knife and a little can of pepper spray in. This isn't the safehouse, he's not a hunter's kid, and you're on high enough alert that you've reached down and yanked his hand out before you really process what you're doing. 

" _Gene_." Peyton's tone is scolding, but her body language doesn't carry the threat that would spark the discomfort you so often feel around kids being punished—she's annoyed, sure, but there's no real threat directed at her brother right now. "One day you're doing to do that and someone's going to toss you right across the room, you know that? Didn't you want mom, Gale?" 

Oh. That last was directed at you; for a moment you can't remember why you needed to talk to Jennifer in the first place, until you shift your footing and feel the extra weight of the cellphone in your pocket. "That—yeah." 

"She's outside checking on the kids; you can come see the goats and where you were when we found you, if you want. C'mon." 

Gene grabs your sleeve as you turn to follow her. "It's _cold_ outside," he informs you. 

The concern's sweet, but... "I'll be okay for a couple minutes, don't worry—are, uh—are you coming?" 

He thinks that over for a second. Then he shifts his grip from your sleeve to your hand and slides off the chair. 

Okay. _This_ at least is familiar. This at least, you know how to do.

* * *

It's not just cold outside, it's _cold_ cold, water-might-freeze cold. You've been in Texas too long—somehow you forgot how temperatures this close to freezing just suck all of your body heat away near-instantly, how it cuts through anything less than four or five layers of clothing like you're not wearing anything at all. You get two steps out the door, feel yourself start to shiver, and briefly tug your hand free of Gene's—not for long, just long enough to wrap both arms around your torso for a few heartbeats, spinning a touch of your magic out into something warmer and more protective than your hoodie, a shield that's permeable to everything except heat. 

Gene looks at you curiously as you hold out your hand again, but if he notices how much warmer your hand must be now he doesn't say a thing. His sister hasn't even paused—you have to hurry to follow her across a gravel driveway, through a gate that you flick two fingers at to close without having to slow down, around the corner of a building that probably functions as a barn even though you don't really think it looks like one, and into an open field. 

Well, she walks out into the field. You take one step away from the building and _freeze_ —not from the cold, but from the sheer _power_ you feel in this place. It's strong and it's old, stronger and older than you thought anything could ever be—for a moment you forget how to breathe. 

Then Gene pulls at your hand, and you let yourself be led. With each step, the presence lessens, or at least you _feel_ it less. It's almost like it's aware of you, deliberately masking the magnitude of its presence as you pass further into its sphere of influence...

Shit. You really don't like that thought. If you could pull your hand out of Gene's again, maybe you could— 

No. No mind fuckery, not even on yourself. Keep your head clear, look at what Peyton's trying to show you, and then get the hell away from here. 

If you focus too hard on that first point you'll definitely fuck it up, so you work on the second one—Peyton's stopped, after all, frowning at a patch of discolored grass. Unnaturally discolored, you realize as you look down at the ground—it's gone brown in the distinctive ring of crescents that you've seen before, tattooed on at least a dozen spots on Roxy's skin. There's grass that's not dead here too, though, a design that makes you think of wings spread wide behind Roxy's symbol even greener than the rest. 

"Is...that's mine?" You hear your voice and don't process it as your own for a long moment, until you raise your head and see Peyton staring at you. She doesn't give you an answer, probably _can't_ give you an answer, but you know it anyway. 

Funny. Even though you chose a word that means _wind_ for your name, you never thought of yourself as someone who might be symbolized by the very image of flight. But it's still yours, you know it is, the marks behind Roxy's ring of crescents—those are _yours_. 

Even as you pull your hand free of Gene’s and take the step forward over the ring of dead grass that brought you here, you know it's a bad idea. That still doesn't mean you can stop, though, and nothing actually happens as you step over the broken barrier. Maybe not _nothing_ , actually—the last traces of the presence you felt when you first stepped into the pasture abruptly drain away, leaving you suddenly shuddering from the absence. 

Peyton sees the shiver, and of course misunderstands it. "Wait—you should have a jacket at least, mom's gonna be—" 

When she crosses into the ring with you, you know that yes, you did in fact fuck up. All the power you felt before—it surges up, coiling around the circle you've entered, and for a long moment you dare to think that maybe, just _maybe_ there's some protection here. Maybe it can't cross the void that the mark of Roxy's power's left, maybe you're still safe, maybe—

Then Gene reaches in to tug at the sleeve Peyton doesn't already have a hand on, and you realize that the power wasn't baffled, it was only waiting. It surges again, stronger than you could have ever imagined, than you would have believed possible—then crashes down around you like black wings folding. 

The ground drops out from beneath your feet. You have just enough presence of mind to grab for Gene and Peyton, pull them in as much as you can to try and drag out enough of your magic to soften the fall that's coming...and to pray that it works.


	3. Chapter 3

The landing _is_ soft, at least...but it's also very wet, and _very_ cold, cold enough that the tiny fraction of your brain that keeps functioning wonders how the hell water's even liquid at these temperatures. Then again, if it _was_ ice it'd hurt a lot more, so...yeah. Positive points. 

The water you land in is shallow enough that you find yourself only waist-deep once you get your feet under yourself. Gene's flailing beside you; you scoop him up, wince as he immediately wraps both arms around his neck as tightly as he can, and grab blindly for Peyton. 

She yelps when you grab her arm—you can't really blame her—and scrabbles at you, nearly sending all three of you back down into the water again. "What the heck, what the _heck._ what—" 

"I don't—I don't _know_ , I, I, uh, I—I need—" 

"What _happened_?" Peyton's _clinging_ to your arm now, and you can't get two words together to tell her that you can't make light without having at least one hand free, and it's so dark that you can't see Gene's face even though it's got to be inches from yours, and—

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_! 

Gene sobs when you let go of him, but he's still got that deathgrip on your throat; there's not any real danger of him actually falling. Sure, letting go cuts off your air supply pretty much instantly, but it'll be a minute or so before the effect of that really kicks in—plenty of time for you to fling your now-free arm out in a wide, sweeping motion, casting a twist of your power out as a visibly shimmering arc of blue-white light. 

It hangs in the air above your head, casting weirdly inconstant shadows and bouncing oddly off the water. Peyton blinks up at it for a moment, then shoves wet brown hair out of her eyes and directs her focus to you instead. "How did you—" 

"Um, later." You've already wrapped your free arm back around Gene; now you adjust his weight until the arm around your throat shifts and loosens, and tug at Peyton to get her moving towards the edge of the pond, maybe ten feet away. (You think it's a pond. Pool? Are there ponds or pools underground? Why are you thinking about this now.) "I—you—dry first, then I'll—I, I'll explain." 

Maybe. Hopefully. You honestly have no idea how you're even going to start on that.

* * *

You have to pull the light into a smaller, more cohesive ball once you've waded out of the water the magic dropped you in. It's brighter, but the light still doesn't carry as far as before; then again, what more info are you going to get from your surroundings that you haven't figured out already? You're underground, in a high-ceilinged cavern that throws back echoes of the water dripping off your clothes, somewhere deep enough that you can't see or feel any sign of the sun.

Not good. Not really good. 

Peyton ducks when you wave your light in closer, then straightens up slowly as it comes to a wavering halt a foot or so above your head. The look she gives it suggests that it's the light she doesn't trust, not you; you're fairly sure that impression is mistaken. "Wh— _what_ —" 

"I—uh, wait." She's shivering badly and you know you're not far from doing the same thing; you peel Gene off and coax him into standing still next to you for a moment. With him out of the way, you pass your hand down from your forehead to your chest, struggling to not flinch as your protection from the cold dissipates. Being soaked makes everything _so_ much worse than before, but you don't know if you can hold more than two magics at a time without losing at least one of them. 

Don't think about the cold. Instead, you rub your hands together until warmth that isn't quite natural grows between your palms, and kneel beside Gene. 

"Hold still?" When he nods, you run your hands from his head downward, careful to not actually touch him. That _probably_ wouldn't burn him, but...best to not test it, especially not with how his eyes widen at the cool steam rising from his clothes and hair as the water leaves them. 

This magic's hard to hold, maybe because you don't do well with true fire; you have to concentrate to keep it active and stable. That's good, though; by the time you look up and see the look on Peyton's face, you feel just a little calmer, a little more capable of handling the questions that she's about to ask. 

"How are you _doing_ that?" 

...okay, so the way that her voice echoes isn't helping, but still. It's an easy question. Sort of. "Uh...magic. Can you, um—can you hold still?" 

She takes a step back when you straighten up again. Dammit. "Magic isn't a _thing_ , not really, that's not—" 

This, you know how to deal with, mostly because it doesn't really require speech. You let go of the heat and hydrophobia in your palms, hold up your left hand in a gesture that says _stop_ to most people, and snap your fingers. It's one of the simplest bits of magic you know, one of the most practically useless, and probably the single most visually striking thing you know how to do. 

Peyton's mouth opens and stays open as she stares at the pale teal flames wreathing your outstretched hand. You give her a moment before pointing out, "Look—the sooner you, uh—you let me dry you off, the sooner we, we can—" 

"Get out of here?" 

"Yeah." Why sign language isn't a required subject in schools you will literally never know. It'd make your life so much easier...but at least she's not going to make this specific bit any harder than it already is. This time when you take a step towards her, Peyton stands still as you shake the false fire around your hand out, letting you repeat the same set of gestures you used to dry Gene. 

By the time you finish _you're_ shaking, so badly that it's hard to steady your hands enough to force the water out of your own clothes. Your light flickers a bit when you wrap your arms around your chest to pull up your layer of protection from the cold up again, and you feel bad about how Peyton flinches and Gene whimpers. You know you need it, though; you're wearing at least two and probably three fewer layers of clothing than they are, and you don't know what would happen to the magics you have active if you pass out from hypothermia. 

So you definitely can't let that happen. Simple, right? 

Peyton watches you silently until you stop shivering. "...so can you like...teleport us out?" 

You can't. You don't know _how._ And even if you could...there's the weirdness around today, the liminal time affecting your magic—you'd have to worry about that. Then again, it didn't stop whatever dragged you down here...but no, there's no point in wondering when you can't work the magic to escape anyway. You doubt that Jennifer's phone will pick up a signal underground, but digging it out of your pocket is a good reason to not have to look at Peyton as you shake your head. 

"I, um. That's not—I can't." 

"Oh." She's still watching you, you _know_ she is. If you don't look up you can be okay with that, though, and as long as you're checking the phone you can get away with not looking up. "Can you call somebody?" 

"Uh." Well, it's not broken—it turns on without even a hesitation. No signal, though, which makes sense when you look up at the stone above you. Still, there's a chance that if you get close enough to the surface it'll pick up a signal; you open the contacts list and add a new one with Hal's number, type out a quick request for help that instantly pops up with the _no service_ message, and hand the phone over to Peyton. "Can you, um. Can you check—check it every couple minutes? Gene, c'mere." 

He's already holding out his arms in a silent plea to be picked up before you even lean towards him. You get him safely settled on your back, gently reposition his arms so you can breathe, and gesture for the light to lead you away from the pool and towards the darkest visible corner of the cavern. Hopefully it'll be some kind of passage and not just a shallow dead end...

* * *

It's not a dead end. 

Peyton trails behind you; every few minutes, the phone beeps as she checks it for a signal again. You don't have the heart to point out that it's probably hopeless unless the path you're on starts going up, which...it's not doing. It _is_ getting less rough, though; you're not sure what to think about how smooth the walls and floor have become by now, what the oddly organic-looking veins of darker stone across the lighter might mean. 

(You do start to think about it, though. It's too much like the bluish patterns visible under the thin skin of your wrists to not. It's not really a comforting thought.) 

The patches of luminescent stones start showing up when the path takes its first dip down. Gene lets go of your shoulder for just a moment, to point at the glowing spot halfway up the wall; Peyton immediately switches the phone from her right hand to her left, stepping over to pry at the deposit. Eventually she gets a few pieces to flake off, and hands one to Gene and the other to you.

Hm. The piece she's given you is the size of two fingers held together, and heavier than it looks. Heavier than most rocks would be; you've held a piece of lead this size, and you think this might be heavier. It's warm in your hand, too, which is...weird. Very weird. 

You think about dropping one of the two magics you're maintaining so you can probe the stone more carefully...but the kids would panic if you let the light go dark, and you're not sure how many more times you'll be able to pull up your shield of warmth before the act starts costing you more than you have to give. Instead, you slip the rock into your pocket, adjust Gene's weight on your back, and start counting your steps. 

That last one is a surprisingly good decision. Ninety-three steps further, the deposits of glowing stone dot the walls like misplaced constellations. It's not really enough to light the tunnel properly yet, though—you don't see the skeleton until your own light swoops ahead of you, illuminating it a bare moment before you would have stepped in it. 

You don't make a sound—it's not the first body you've seen, after all, and they really are worse when they're fresh. Peyton, though...she bumps into you, gets a good look at the skull where it's lying a few feet away from the tangle of ribs, and _screams_. 

It's an impossibly loud sound echoing off the bare stone walls, and you almost drop Gene in the process of trying to get a hand over her mouth. It doesn't help that he was nearly asleep; his grip around your neck tightens as he startles awake and starts to panic, then tightens even _more_ when he sees the skeleton. 

Great, now _you're_ struggling to not panic. But you can't do that—not now, not when they're here and depending on you—so instead you wait for Peyton to stop trying to get loose before you take your hand away from your mouth and pry Gene's hands loose enough that you can get enough air to speak. 

" _Quiet._ Don't—don't scream." 

She nods, eyes too wide and fixed on the skeleton. Gene, though... 

"A _monster_ ate him," he nearly wails right in your ear. "It _ate_ him, it—"

You reach over your shoulder to try and muzzle him. It doesn't really work, but dodging your hand shuts him up anyway, at least long enough for you to take a breath, let it out, and concentrate on getting at least one sentence out without stammering. "Nothing ate him, I—I promise. It wouldn't—if it was—if—" Dammit. _So_ close. "It—nothing could eat, uh—nothing could eat him and not eat the bones." 

The last comes out in a rush, but at least a little of the fear on Peyton's face melts away. You don't understand the confusion that replaces it until she asks, "Is this, like...normal for you?" 

Well, if you're being honest. "Uh...yeah. Sort of. Sometimes. Come on?" 

"Past _that_?" 

"They're d—" Maybe don't say it like that. "They, they can't hurt you. Come, uh. Come on, we need—we need to find a way out." 

_If there is one._

You're not going to say that one out loud. Just...step over the skeleton, carefully because they deserve care even if they're gone, and keep counting your steps.


	4. Chapter 4

Somewhere in there, you lose count. It's a high number, though—you were at close to a thousand when the numbers started snarling up in your mind, and the little spots and splotches of light on the walls have become glowing deposits, enough that you were able to let go of your light-magic a while ago. Might as well conserve your strength, right? Make sure it'll be enough? 

(Enough for what, exactly? No, never mind. Not yet.) 

Anyway. The walls glow with pale soft light that pulses like a slow heartbeat, the stone beneath your feet is warm enough that you think you don't really _need_ your cloak of arm energy, and even though it's quiet you can nearly _hear_ the ancient and overwhelming presence all around you. It's not something that's just in the air or the stones, it's something that's _everywhere_ , in everything here, crushing you, it's—

Wait. You stop walking. Peyton runs into you again. 

"What—" 

"Shhh." You might put a twist of magic into the act of waving a hand at her. It's not nice, it's probably not necessary, but it does strike her silent before she can wake Gene; there's almost nothing to distract you as you _listen_. 

Quiet. Under your feet, something pulses in time with the brightening and dimming of the lights—slow, maybe once every ten seconds. The air's not still and dead like it would be underground, but the faint and inconstant breeze doesn't carry even the slightest hint of the surface—it changes every minute or so, first pulling you to take another step forward and then gently urging you back. 

And you know the walls and floor are oh-so-slightly warm. And you know there's something here with you, something alive, something _listening_. Hopefully.

"What do you want." It comes out flat, not even sounding like a question, but you guess that's a more than fair tradeoff for no involuntary pauses. Maybe how angry you're getting now has something to do with it. "We're done giving you a, a free show—what do you _want_?" 

For a moment you think that maybe you're wrong. Maybe nothing's there, maybe it's just paranoia. Then the ground under your feet shudders—Peyton seizes your arm; you're _definitely_ going to have some bruises—and the patterns of glowing stone flicker slightly as words start unspooling through your mind. 

_"Show" seems like a weak word for something as novel as you, child of wind._

You've been called that before. Funny, you were pretty sure you weren't going to make it out alive that time either...focus on now, though. 

"What do—uh." Shit. There goes the last of your streak of luck. "What—uh, what do you want?" 

_All I require, I contain._

"That's—you're not—" 

The stone flickers again, and a touch of amusement brushes against your thoughts. _Think fast and speak slowly—all that power in that small body can't change that?_

Great, so the mysterious and unfathomably powerful being you might actually be trapped inside is a fucking bag of dicks. Shouldn't the fear be kicking in again right about now? No? Fine, you'd rather work with anger instead anyway. "You—uh. You, you read minds?" 

This ripple of amusement is more than purely mental—the floor shifts under your feet, enough that you have to grab for the wall. Peyton, on the other hand, grabs at your shoulder with the hand that's not already latched onto your arm. 

Gene yelps in your ear. Damn, you were hoping he'd stay asleep...you can't handle him right now. "Peyton, uh—here." 

She shakes her head frantically, but she doesn't actually argue as you disentangle Gene from where he's clinging to your back. (And your hair—he won't let go, and you think you lose a decent chunk as Peyton takes him from you.) Another minute, and you've got both hands free to sign out the words that won't quite make it out of your mouth. 

"What do—uh—" Finish with your hands. The important thing is being sure to think the words, not to say them out loud. _—you want with me?_

_All I desire, I consume._

...consume. Well, you definitely know roughly where you are now. Sort of. "So—" 

_So, nothing._ The presence in your mind and all around you twists in what feels like...impatience, maybe? Irritation? _Quiet, child of wind. Join me in dreams, if you_ must _speak._

You think about what that means. Then you think about the untouched skeleton back in the darker portion of the passage, how they died without any trauma great enough to leave a mark on the bones. "Oh _fuck_ no." 

_No?_

_Oh. You think you'd rather wake again._ Funny—there's a physical aspect to the pain you feel from scorn directed at you, when it's from someone like this. _Odd. Shortsighted. You could experience more with me in the time we would have than you could in any short human life—I was here before the hills, after all._

"Then—um—then stay here, but—but—" 

_But stay alone? I'm sure I will be again, after your dreams end and before the next little mage wanders into the times in between. For now, you can keep entertaining me—it's been thousands of wakings since I've tasted one so...hopeful._

Hopeful. It's an interesting choice of words—every other time you've had to wonder if you're about to die, you sort of...accepted that there wasn't anything you could do to make a way out. This time, though? You're not feeling that sense of despair. Maybe it's because it's not just you this time—if it was you and you alone here...well, maybe you'd lie down and go to sleep, even if it meant never waking up again. But with the kids—

_The children. As if you're more than a child yourself._

"I—" You've been working on ignoring the voice in your head that says that exact same thing for a solid year. It makes it a lot easier to flip off this specific voice in your head as you find the words to go with it. "Fuck you." 

_Does it help if I promise you it won't hurt?_

No. Not at all. A lot of things have happened to you that didn't hurt; it didn't make any of them any less shitty. "Yeah, that—it—that makes it worse." 

_...you are baffling, child of wind. Puzzling you out should be a fascinating process._

You're not really sure why the certainty that there'll be a chance to pick you apart is so infuriating. The emotion's a good thing, you guess—this way, you don't freeze up. The anger gives you enough impetus to spin on your heel, get ahold of Peyton's arm, and half-drag her after you back down towards the end of the light, the beginning of the passage, and the pool of water you've already been in once today.

* * *

You only remember that you silenced Peyton when you accidentally undo the magic trying to call cold fire into your hand again. She yelps when the magic holding her dissolves, startling a sleepy sound out of Gene. 

"Um." You snap your fingers, giving her a sheepish and hopefully contrite look in the resultant flickering light. "I—sorry." 

She shakes her head furiously. You don't like how wide her eyes are. "That—that _thing_ said there's no way out. We can't get out?" 

Oh. So she's panicked, not angry with you. That...might be worse. "I—" 

"You said you couldn't teleport us out of here, you can't get us out, we can't get out—" 

Dammit, _damn_ it, damn it... "I—uh, I know, I—I will. I have to." 

She just stares at you. Then, "We're going to die." 

_Damn._ "No. Come on."

* * *

The light has to go when you reach the pool in the larger chamber—you don't trust yourself to do more than two things at once, not when they're this large and this important. The magic you've been using to warm yourself has to go too, unfortunately—you pass it to Peyton and Gene as you take her arm and wade into the water. You know you did it right, because she doesn't react to the cold, not at first. 

When you're waist-deep and you can't keep your breathing steady, you stop. "Don't move," you warn. 

"What—" 

"Tru—uh. Trust me." And you close your eyes, clear your mind as much as you can, and start the familiar motions that should calm you and probably won't, but should have...other effects. 

It was D's idea, sort of. And Hal's. Dave had a say too, and you guess Dirk _was_ the one who called an anime marathon in the first place—without every piece of this puzzle here, you wouldn't have settled on tai chi instead of yoga or whatever else. And sure, the only reason that your reality imitates the anime you spent a solid week and a half binging in that you _believe_ it should, but look. _Look._ For you, belief and a few gestures can take you further than anyone else would ever think possible. 

You just hope it'll be far enough. 

Don't think about that. Don't think about _anything_ , not now—now you're a vessel, you're the channel through which the water flows and you are the water itself, you are the moon tugging the tides and you are the waves being dragged along. Your heartbeat is the only thing you hear, the echo of the ocean in your veins roaring in your ears as the water rises past your waist to your chest, pulls at your clothes like it's trying to leach out the last bits of warmth you haven't managed to lose yet as it swirls around you. 

Maybe you could slow the process, but that's not the point right now. You let the rapidly-forming whirlpool take what it wants to from you even though it's _cold_ , so cold it _hurts_ —you don't think about the pain, just concentrate on flowing from pose to pose and pulling more magic through yourself to pour into the water. Channelling power like this hurts too, but it'll keep you from freezing as long as you keep it up. 

You're nearly at your limit for being able to keep it up. Which is...fine. You think. The water around you is charged in every molecule, casting faint light of its own that you can just barely see with your eyes shut. It's nearly ready, so close to being able to do what you're asking it to, what you're wordlessly _begging_ it to do—

And then the water surges up and the solid surface under your feet is just gone. Peyton's hand clamps down on your arm, not to pull you up but to try to steady herself, not that it'll work. The water hasn't just swept you off your feet—there's nothing but water, no surface to stand on. 

Kurloz and Karkat walk in shadows, fae may travel through mirrors or through living plants, but you...you've made a portal of water, flowing between places that should not connect. You don't know anyone else who's done this. 

For a good reason, now that you think of it—you can't _breathe_ here, there's no surface for you to break, not even the smallest pocket of air to find. If you inhale—

No. Don't. Hold onto what little air and power you have left. 

It's not much, but then again you've managed the thing you were worried about not being able to do already. Another endless moment of struggling to keep from letting out the air in your lungs, the space between tides or the space between heartbeats, and the temperature of the water swirling around you drops another couple degrees. 

It also recedes, suddenly enough that it takes you by surprise. You manage to get your feet under you for a moment, get your head above the surface for just long enough to get both a gasped lungful of air and a blurry glimpse of overcast sky and leafless trees; then the water level lowers just a bit more and you realize that it's pretty much the only thing holding you up. _You_ sure as hell can't do it. 

You slip under the water again, closing your eyes as the smooth cold stones of a shallow creek bed scrape against your face. Peyton's still got one hand on your arm, but you really doubt she'll be able to drag your dead weight out of the water no matter _how_ shallow it is. 

It's ironic, isn't it? You were first named as a child of earth, chose to be of air, and you're going to die with your lungs full of water. At least it's not going to hurt like the alternative would—you don't even want to think about how painful fire would be...

Then again, when your focus fractures enough that you inhale, the water definitely does burn going down. Well, fuck. 

Peyton's hand leaves your arm. You're glad for a second—at least she's probably about to get out of the stupid water, and it's not like she'd accomplish anything staying beside you—and then a stronger hand clamps down around your wrist. 

**Gale?** Kurloz's mental voice crashes through your mind like a tidal wave (that's it, _enough_ with the irony, you're sick of it) as strong tendrils that must be his dreadlocks wind around you and pull, lifting you up and out of the creek.

Coughing out the water you inhaled hurts more than breathing it in did, but you still force your eyes open enough to get a blurry, sideways view of him. Oh—he's fully demonic, tall and horned and marked with the white outline of the bones under his darker than black skin. To you it's almost reassuring—nothing fucks with Kurloz—but to Peyton...well, not so much. You can see her over Kurloz's shoulder, sitting on the creekbank with her back up against a tree trunk and her brother hugged up to her chest. 

From here, they look dry, which is nice. Even with the energy that Kurloz is already feeding into you, you don't think you're going to be capable of even the small magic of pulling water out of clothing, not for a while at least. Since you don't need to try, maybe you can just...

**Hey. Stay with me another minute, sib.** The thoughts are gentler now, less crushing; he's got control of himself again. You still groan as you force your eyes back open, giving him as much of a glare as you can muster as he wades out of the maybe knee-deep water, shifting back to human as his dreadlocks shift to leave you in his arms instead. **Strider'll have my head if I leave them here.**

You try to look over at Peyton and Gene as Kurloz jerks his head towards them, and realize that you can't—he's holding your gaze with his eyes, brighter than anything else right now. Okay, that's fair. "Take _them_ back, then—" 

**Can't get three in one trip, and like hell I'm leaving you here.** Kurloz's grip tightens a bit; since he's still got his dreadlocks half-wrapped around your arms and torso, it's unsettlingly like being pulled into a nest of pythons for a moment. **_You're_ the one here fucked halfway to heaven right now.**

Can't argue with that. At least you're not as cold as you were before. Hopefully that's Kurloz's doing, and not just hypothermia really setting in. "Uh-huh." 

The light in his eyes flickers, and a few of his dreads wind around your hand, wrapping around your fingers. He's still not fully human—it feels too smooth and too hard to be hair, more like some odd flexible kind of bone. That's a _really_ weird thing to find comforting, you think. **Tired?**

"N—no shit." You have to laugh, even if it's not much of a sound. 

Kurloz echoes the laugh just as quietly, teeth showing for just an instant in a there-and-gone smile. **Stupid motherfucking question, I know. Sleep for me, Gale.**

There's a compulsion in the thought, strong and seductive. You could probably resist it...not that you want to. As soon as he gives you permission, you let out a breath that still stings a bit in your throat, close your eyes, and drop straight into pure and (thankfully) dreamless darkness.

* * *

When you wake up again, you're dry and _actually_ warm—not the sustaining but fragile heat of Kurloz's power curling around you, just...blankets. Several blankets. Several very fuzzy blankets, and someone else's sweater. At least you think it's someone else's—it's not yours, none of your sweaters have this specific texture. You crack your eyes open just to be sure, though. 

...huh. You have no idea whose this is. Something picked up specifically for this occasion, maybe? Where would you even go shopping for "fell in a hole, talked to a living mountain, and almost died?" 

According to whoever picked this out—probably Dirk, he's dubiously colorblind enough—the answer to that question is "a thrift store from the eighties." You push the blankets piled over you back so you can see a bit more of it, breathe out as slowly as you can, and start tracing out individual stitches, counting how many different types of yarn had to have been used to knit this. 

As far as you can tell, it's fifteen. You're still not ready to move by the time you work that out, though, so you start counting stitches instead. It's not like you're going to run out of those before you either fall asleep or decide to get up, after all...although you don't actually get to either point, just to seven hundred thirty-nine. 

Then a gentle hand comes down on your head, and a familiar voice speaks in your mind. 

**Didn't expect you to be awake so quick.**

"Quick?" You shift your hands away from the pattern you're tracing out, tipping your head back to look up at Kurloz. He leans forward as you do, avoiding the possible need for you to actually lean back and giving you a faint smile. "How—uh—" 

**Two hours.** Bright violet light shows in his eyes for a moment as he considers, then winks out abruptly as he blinks. **Bit more, bit less.**

"You're—you—uh." 

**Reading your mind?**

It's easiest to just nod; Kurloz nods as soon as you confirm that was what you meant. Weird; usually you can feel when he's poking around...

**Eh, not when I'm right on the surface. Immediate thoughts 'n short-term memory; I figure you don't want to have to talk this shit through for Strider, right?**

Oh. Shit. You actually hadn't thought yet about how you're going to have to explain what happened to D and the other hunters...let alone to Jennifer. Shit, she's got to be furious, you disappeared with her children for who knows _how_ long—

**Two days, about.**

" _What_?" That's not right. That can't possibly be right. "That's...no. Three _days_?" Hours you'd believe, but...

Kurloz shrugs. **More or less. Time passes differently in the places between.**

"The—uh, the what?" 

**Hm.** His head tilts thoughtfully as he considers you for a long moment; if it was anyone else, it'd be enough to make you nervous. **What did it seem like to you?**

"I don't—it—I, it was—" Well, this isn't working. You're not sure if you'll be able to get it to, but you stop anyway, breathe out and struggle to figure out what's fucking up your attempt to speak this time. 

After a moment, Kurloz taps your shoulder to get you focused on him again. **Need me to help this time?**

"That— _please_." He doesn't make this offer all that often, and you'd never ask—you've caught flashes of his thoughts when he adjusts your mind just enough to let you speak without hesitation, the immense concentration he has to expend to keep his power perfectly balanced against yours. Still, maybe...maybe this time it'll be a little easier?

**Yeah, almost motherfucking dying does tend to do that.** There's a definite touch of wry amusement in the thought as he sends it. **Now. You didn't know you'd left this plane?**

Even though you know you don't technically need to, you take another deep breath. "It felt like—falling. Into...I don't know. Something. Not a place so much as....inside something alive." 

**Like you'd been eaten?**

"That's not—no. Not quite." You think of the patterns of stone on the walls of the gently curving passage. "Like—being in its heart." 

**Hm. And it let you go?**

"No." It didn't stop you from leaving, but only because it never thought anyone would be able to. You shouldn't have been able to. 

You shouldn't have been able to leave. You shouldn't have been able to do it. The being you spoke to—it's old beyond measure, and it didn't even think of the possibility that you'd be able to escape, because in all of its centuries and eons of sleeping and waking and sleeping again _no one ever had_ —how did _you_ manage it? You should still be trapped, should be there in the dark—

"Gale." Kurloz's soft, rough voice snaps you out of the spiral. **No more. You're all right. You're _here,_ sib.**

He's right. Breathe. "I shouldn't be." 

He considers that for a moment, then smiles. **Didn't think of that then, did you?**

"...no." All you were thinking of then was that you needed to get out, to get Peyton and Gene safe no matter what else happened. 

**Good.** Kurloz settles down on the arm of the couch you're on, starting to carefully work a snarl out of your hair. **You haven't brushed your hair at all since you've been here, huh?**

"I had some other things on my mind, Kurloz." 

**You and Meulin.** He snorts ruefully, shifting to get more comfortable. **You did pretty motherfucking well on this, though. Where you went, I sure as fuck couldn't have followed.**

The reassurance lets you relax a little...but. Sometimes it seems like you can always find a but. "I...I didn't do anything. It's still—it's still there, Kurloz. Next time—" 

**Four years from now?**

"Yeah—it—" 

**That motherfucker'll still be there in four years. Hell, in four _thousand_. Not much you or I or anyone else can do about that shit.**

"I should have—" 

Kurloz shushes you out loud, fingers pausing in their work for a second. **None of that shit, now. You got yourself and the little ones out safe, and that's enough.**

It doesn't feel like enough. Not when you were the whole reason they weren't safe in the first place—if you hadn't been there—

**Planning on blaming it on Lalonde, then?**

"What—no! Roxy didn't—" 

**She helped put you in the place to be taken.** He huffs out a noise that pings as a laugh even though there's nearly no sound to it. **Or we can go with the random chance thing, you know. Sometimes shit happens and it's no one's fault, there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Doesn't make you a bad hunter, doesn't make you a bad person.**

"But—" 

**Gale.** Kurloz tugs gently on a strand of your hair, not hard enough to hurt. **You've watched the Striders enough to know hunters don't have to kill.**

"They still do _something._ " 

**When they can. Sometimes there's just jack shit you _can_ do.**

"It—it feels bad. It still feels bad." 

**Well...you did just wake up.** He makes a soft, thoughtful sound. **How about I borrow Hal's laptop, you watch some videos while I braid your hair, and we see how you feel in an hour or so?**

"It sounds like a sleepover?" 

**Still sounds pretty good though, right?**

It really does...and he's right. You'll feel better once you're more awake, once he's pulled your hair back, once you've had some time. So... "Yeah. Sounds great." 

**Alright then. Be right back.**

You don't have to look to know he's gone, but he'll be back in a few minutes, and in not very much longer you'll be going back home to the safehouse. Despite everything...shit really is going to be fine.


End file.
